Connecticut Contemplations
by Partners In Fanfic
Summary: Fusco finally had some time to really think about the mess he had gotten himself into with "the man in a suit". Ironically enough, this time was spent on a highway traveling to Connecticut.


**_DISCLAIMER: STILL DON'T OWN PERSON OF INTEREST. _**

**A/N: **_Hey everyone! I wanted to publish this earlier this weekend, but I have midterms this week and have been studying like CRAZY. But, I took a break from my books and quickly edited this, so I apologize for any mistakes. Quick fangirl moment here: How awesome was last week's episode? Reese looked hot, even on crutches! Anyway, have a great week everyone! -EAJP_

**** **Just want to give a special thanks to QualityReviewer, who gave me the prompt of writing about Fusco's thoughts on his way to Connecticut. This fic's for you! ******

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><p>Detective Fusco didn't travel outside of the city very often anymore. The NYPD always kept him moving, and when he wasn't working (on any type of case, legal or otherwise) he was spending time with his son. So, when everything he needed to do was in New York City, there really was no reason for him to be anywhere else.<p>

Until now, of course. Now, Fusco found himself on his way to Connecticut (_Connecticut_, of all places), pill bottle with his "friend's" fingerprints on it setting next to him in the passenger's seat.

Fusco sighed, exasperated. This was insane. He couldn't believe that he was driving two hours out of his way to break into a random building in some unsuspecting town to lure bloodthirsty CIA agents away from a man who could very well end Fusco's life if he woke up one morning in and felt like it. And he was doing this all because some guy with a limp and glasses told him to.

Fusco wasn't bothered so much by the fact that he kept answering to these guys, however. Sure, the guy in the suit and Mr. "friend of a friend" were a pain in the ass sometimes, but Fusco knew organized crime well enough to know that when someone knows where you are virtually twenty-four/seven, you don't cross them.

What was odd, though, was that Fusco wasn't bothered by _them_ so much anymore. He wouldn't stretch it so far as to say he liked these two mysterious characters, but he certainly couldn't say he hated them. Although he hadn't dealt with the bespectacled man enough to at least feel a little familiar with him, he had enough contact with the other guy to know he wasn't as bad as Carter wanted to paint him out to be. Sure, he had the whole issue with killing, injuring, and generally terrorizing people, but Fusco was alright with overlooking that. How could he argue with a guy who was actually going after the bad guys? Fusco wasn't like Carter, who seemed to be on a quest to destroy everyone except people who were honest to a fault like her. If the criminals were going to jail, Fusco didn't really (_couldn't _really) give a damn about how they were getting there.

Fusco glanced at a road sign he passed by. Thirty miles to Connecticut. Fantastic. There wasn't anything to listen to on the radio, not that Fusco would have if there was. After a cursory glance at the pill bottle again, the detective's thoughts drifted once again back to the reason behind this little road trip.

Fusco was surprising himself, as of late, with the sudden amount of concern he had for a guy who wouldn't even give him his name (Fusco sometimes referred to him as Batman, if he was feeling particularly humorous). He shouldn't _care_ that the guy was shot, but the odd thing was, he _did._ A lot. He was angry that a bunch of CIA hotshots felt like they could just waltz in and kill whoever they want. Especially when that "whoever" happened to be a guy who literally saved Fusco's life on one occasion, even _after_ Fusco sold him out.

Fusco wasn't one to think about his feelings. Feelings made things messy and personal (and after one divorce, messy and personal were two adjectives he could do without). So he stopped thinking about the man in question and started thinking about hockey. Hockey, he mused, was a safe topic. There was a game on this weekend. That was nice.

Thoughts of hockey carried him into Connecticut. He drove for a while into the state, figuring that stopping right at the border wouldn't be very effective. And suddenly, he was thinking about his "friend" again. Great. The guy knew how to sneak up behind him, even in the privacy of his own mind. Honestly, Fusco wasn't surprised.

The detective stopped once he reached Waterbury. Deciding it was far enough away, he pulled his car over to the side of the road and spied a secluded veterinary clinic. Perfect, Fusco mused, it even seemed like a place Batman would break into.

Fusco sighed and got out of the car. "You really owe me, Mr. 'friend of a friend,'" he muttered aloud. Or maybe, he thought, he didn't. Fusco was quickly realizing that there wasn't much he wouldn't do for these two, if they really needed his help. It gave him a headache just thinking about it.

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><p><strong>Like it? Leave a comment. Reviews are love and coffee. =)<strong>


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